


Solace (of Sorts)

by ultragirlvfr750



Category: 00M - Fandom, James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: But not a drabble, Ever - Freeform, F/M, I'm addicted to changing things, Please be kind to my mistakes, This is the ending I wanted, because i have no ability to be brief, it's a flaw i know, so I wrote it, yeah it's a one shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:12:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6842128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultragirlvfr750/pseuds/ultragirlvfr750
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>ssaerinhotchner loves the scene where M tells Bond she needs him back.  I love it too - there is so much going on in their interaction.  It got me thinking - what would have happened if Bond had turned around after tossing the necklace in the snow? </p><p>Disclaimer - I have stolen lines of dialogue right out of the film (mea culpa).  I don't own Bond or M and I will put them back where they belong when I am finished playing with them.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Solace (of Sorts)

**Author's Note:**

> ssaerinhotchner loves the scene where M tells Bond she needs him back. I love it too - there is so much going on in their interaction. It got me thinking - what would have happened if Bond had turned around after tossing the necklace in the snow? 
> 
> Disclaimer - I have stolen lines of dialogue right out of the film (mea culpa). I don't own Bond or M and I will put them back where they belong when I am finished playing with them.

The snow falls faster now, drifting across her face and she shrugs against the cold. She watches the entrance to the building and the flakes swirling in the muted light. All is quiet but that means nothing when it comes to him. He’s just as likely to use a silencer. 

She can add rogue to his list of faults, apparently. There is no surprise in that, only the shock that her first instinct is to protect him at all costs, not abandon him to a disciplinary hearing, nor leave him to twist in the wind. It’s a marvel she ever once wished for his defection.

And then he appears, striding out into light like an apparition and against her will, for one brief moment, her breath catches in her chest.

“He’s still alive?”

“He is.”

His eyes are bruised but he lacks the vacant look of a man in the throes of loss and his face is as stoic as ever.

“I assume you have no regrets,” her voice is steady but suddenly she can’t bear to look at him. Because he might see the thing she really feels, the thing she keeps hidden, even from herself.

“I don’t. What about you?” By contrast he looks into her face as if searching for all of her secrets.

“Course not,” no pause, “that would be unprofessional.”

She continues dispassionately, bringing the conversation back to business. She ignores her hammering heart and the flush that blossoms across her face despite the bite in the wind.  
It will always come down to this, and here in the winter she thinks it's justice, the cold. 

They watch their breath steam in plumes before them. Struggle for power the undercurrent of their clipped conversation but the fact he is here and restrained in his actions is proof enough. 

Of what she’s still not sure. 

“Congratulations, you were right.” for the first time his eyes leave her face.

“About what?”

“About Vesper.”

All she can manage is to stare, unable to find the correct word or turn of phrase to ease him and her heart aches for them both. For him because she was right; and her because she is happy for it.

There is nothing to say. There is everything to say.

His ‘M’am’ cuts her to the quick and she breaks first, calls to his retreating form. 

"Bond, I need you back.”

He turns to look at her, hulking and haunted.

"I never left."

Is that petulance? No, in an instant she sees- disappointment. In her she's sure.

Tossing the necklace into the snow, he doesn’t look back. 

To the untrained observer it seems almost like an afterthought but she knows better and as she turns her back on his glittering betrayal she retraces her steps, the imprint of her boots half dusted already. This weather will make her a ghost.

His kiss when it comes is as soft as the flakes of snow dusting across her cheeks but it burns, searing her mouth and she digs her nails into his shoulder, feeling his hard muscle beneath her palm. His tongue pushes past her teeth and she falls against him as he lifts her, his hand against the flat of her back.

She bites his bottom lip hard, drawing blood, from desire or the need to make him stop, she'll never really know.

"I could have you shot," voice steady on but her chest is heaving.

He smiles then, the first time since Vesper, all the way to his eyes.

"But you won't."

He leans in, his rough cheek against her softening lines, she smells musk and the spicy scent of his sweat.

"You need me. You said so yourself."

No.

Not like that.

She yearns to command it. But she has no voice and his hands are in her hair.

All around them the snow is falling. Falling. She is falling.

"Olivia, I came back for you.”

She traces her thumb over his bottom lip, wiping the blood and she feels him shiver, helpless under her hand. Her fingers still his mouth, no more trust in the words between them. 

His hand cups the side of her face, his thumb, rough across her lip in counterpoint to her own, while behind them the necklace sinks in the snow, forgotten, and before all sense leaves her she thinks he hasn’t learned his lesson. Not at all.

But then again, neither has she.


End file.
